Fractured
by kandyblood
Summary: Karkat tries to put them all back together after they fall apart, but he's still in pieces. Then he discovers that someone called Hussie has been recording their ordeal as fiction. Karkat struggles to lead his friends through his own pain, trying to find his purpose while coping with being in love and doubting himself every step of the way. Rated T because it's Homestuck.


Karkat Vantas was not a happy camper. In fact, he was so much not a happy camper that he wasn't even a camper at all, though it pretty much felt like it. His tongue was like sandpaper, his head was pounding, his feet hurt, his lungs burned, and he felt gross and sweaty.

Of course, this may have been because he was in a club, had had a bit too much to drink, had been pulled this way and that by John the entire day, the place was filled with cigar smoke and cheap cologne, and it was stiflingly hot from the bodies that were writhing on the dance floor.

Karkat sipped his drink, scowling, not even bothering to acknowledge the stares he got for his horns and gray skin. Not that people could make out his coloring in the flashing magenta lights. Dave had gigs here every so often, and the more people came to the club, the more money he got, so he invited all the trolls and humans to have a little "fun". Karkat had only gone because John wanted him to, and since they lived together it was hard to ignore him.

The fact that John had stolen all his underwear and hung them around the apartment out of his reach didn't exactly have nothing to do with it either.

Karkat sighed and scrubbed his hand over his face, perched precariously on the bar stool. Suddenly there was someone shouting in his ear.

"Hey Karkat, come and dance! You can't just sit here forever!"

He growled and swatted John away, only to be hit in the face by a chilly gust of wind. Damn Egbert and his powers, and damn the game for letting him keep them.

"Aw, don't be like that! Come have fun!"

"No. Fuck off."

"Pleeeaaassseee?" John whined, pulling at Karkat's arm. The troll glared up at him.

"Egbert, so help me god, I will leave."

"No, don't leave! Have some fun, will you? Everyone else is."

John was drunk and being stupid and Karkat was too tired and grumpy to deal with it at the moment. He shoved at the gangly parasite that had latched itself onto his arm and stood, downing his drink in one gulp and setting the empty glass down on the bar.

"I'm going home. Don't get too smashed," he muttered, tearing away from John's clinging grasp and making a bee-line for the exit. The bouncer gave him a nod as he slipped out, pulling out a cigarette with long, slender fingers. He didn't smoke too much, but the occasional drag did wonders for his headaches. He lit it up, the lighter in his hand trembling slightly, and took a deep breath. Karkat sighed, letting the smoke billow out of his lips in a streamlined trickle. He watched the tendrils dissipate and placed the cigarette back in his mouth, two fingers grasping it and pulling it away again. In, out. Karkat sighed and summoned the will to start walking, putting one foot in front of the other as he made his way back to the apartment in the cool night air of summer.

The streetlights glowed silently, the pale orange aura of each one illuminating the puffs of smoke from the cigarette. Karkat observed the human world, the quiet pressing in on his ears, broken every so often by his own inhale or exhale. It wasn't that he was unhappy here. Honestly, he didn't give a damn about the species he was mingling with as long as they weren't trying to kill him. But the game had taken its toll on their whole party; they all had battle scars that would never heal, insecurities and nightmares that would give even the most seasoned psychologists heart attacks. Everyone had lost pieces of themselves. Terezi no longer cackled with such abandon. Sollux's barbed insults and sly jabs were fewer and further between, leaving long stretches of silence while he just...stared. Gamzee would never be the same, so much more subdued and prone to rage even now. Dave had stopped rambling so much, the simple joy and lightness he once had reduced to occasional bursts of true, unfabricated happiness. Karkat himself had changed, becoming so much more protective, so much less forthcoming. He had all but stopped the angry rants, the long and complex metaphors he used to love so much becoming darker, more direct, less sarcasm and more seriousness.

They were broken, and Karkat felt the overwhelming need to fix them. He wanted to shield them all, cut them off from everything that could hurt them. He offered his advice and support on a daily basis, helping his friends limp along, heads bowed and wounds still fresh, as they tried to stand and live again.

It was no small task. There were so many things to cope with now, things they'd never had to worry about before. School. Money. Clothes. Social etiquette. Even the humans were struggling to keep up with the normality of everything; it had been so long. So they went to college and got degrees and worked until they couldn't remember why they were doing it any more, why they even had a reason to live.

Karkat squashed his cigarette on a lamp post in front of the apartment building, throwing the butt on the ground before making his way into the apartment building and up the stairs. He unlocked the door, leaning against the door and allowing it to swing open soundlessly. He closed it behind him, looking around at the couch covered in notes and diagrams from both his and John's schoolwork. The TV was off, the gray-black of the screen glowing in the partial darkness of the room. He could make out a few DVDs littering the table, the cases flung haphazardly in a pile. John must have had a movie marathon. Karkat wove his way around the furniture, the ottoman nearly tripping him. He flailed his arms, regaining his balance, and spit out a curse at the unresponsive object. Still muttering slightly, Karkat stepped over a pile of pillows on the floor of the kitchen and made his way to his own room. He flicked the light on, bathing the small space in bright light. He hissed and blinked, letting his now-red eyes adjust to the sudden change.

Karkat sat down at his computer, typing his password in with fingers flying over the keys. The screen blinked to life, showing a picture Karkat had taken with John when they had properly met for the first time. Karkat looked grumpy, his arms crossed sullenly as he glared at the camera, but John couldn't have looked happier. Already a few good inches taller than Karkat, John had his arm slung over the smaller boy's shoulder, grinning with abandon. His blue eyes shone with utter happiness, and Karkat could see how happy his past self was through the hardened mask. His lips twitching, current Karkat clicked on the browser icon. The big, easy to look at apps of Google Chrome stared back, the curser blinking in the bar above. Karkat's fingers hovered over the keyboard uncertainly. He narrowed his eyes for a minute and then shrugged, quickly typing his own name and pressing enter.

He felt his eyes widen at the 863,000 results he'd gotten. There was a wiki page entry for him? What were all these cartoon images and illustrations of him? He finally took a deep breath and clicked on the third link down, mspaintadventures.

Karkat's breath was gone as he clicked through the pages, watching as little sprite forms of himself and his friends acted out their ordeal, the awful dialog and horribly sarcastic narration making it all seem like a joke. He felt sick, heat and tightness coiling in his belly. Homestuck. Who could possibly come up with a name for the awful thing they had all gone through? What sick, awful person actually made a...a...a _comic_ about this? Karkat felt the coil in his belly turn to anger, his muscles tensing and his vision starting to turn red around the edges. It had been so long since he had felt anger like this, and now it was close to consuming him. His hands clenched into fists, carving red crescents into his palm. It wasn't a _game_, it wasn't a _joke_. It was _real_, and this Andrew Hussie had no right to make it seem like it wasn't. They had _suffered_! They had been beaten and broken and _damaged_ by these experiences, probably beyond repair, and some human thought that it was okay to...to...to..._make fun of them_?

Karkat's rage only grew as he scrolled through the fanart, the stories people wrote about them. People_ shipping _them, who had no understanding of their personalities or their desires or even their anatomy. Humans playing with characters, manipulating them to do what they want. There was a whole fandom dedicated to this comic that belittled them and their pain. It was horrible to see, horrible to experience knowing that it was true. Karkat finally pushed his chair away from the desk, letting it roll backwards. He buried his face in his hands. How did he deal with something like this? The knowledge alone was almost enough to make him want to give up on everything, to throw up his hands and shout at the universe. _What's the point?_ He would scream, knowing that there was no one listening. _Why did you keep me alive, give me a second chance at something that's not worth it?_

A key rattled in the lock and Karkat was jolted into action, exiting out of the window and shutting his computer hastily. he turned off the lights and sprang into bed, still fully clothed, as John opened the door.

"Karkat? Are you still awake?"

A blurry form stumbled through the dark and stopped in his doorway, soft illumination from the lights of the kitchen falling on Karkat as he pretended to be asleep. John's shadow shifted to darken Karkat's face and then disappeared with a whispered 'goodnight' as the door shut softly. Karkat breathed again, relaxing into the sheets.

John didn't have to know. None of them did, he realized. He just had to protect them. He'd get that sadistic maniac to give him an explanation, maybe even take the damn thing down so he could feel safe again. But no matter what happened, he couldn't let his friends know. It would destroy them, make them angry and sad and resentful, opening old wounds and creating new ones. He couldn't let that happen, he decided with finality as he drifted off to sleep, still dressed. He couldn't.

**Alright, well. It was an answer to an anonymous prompt on AO3: "I would like to see someone write a story about Homestuck." Decided to post it here. Much different from my usual style, hopefully darker and more serious. Descriptive enough? Am I failing horribly? Please let me know!  
~kandyblood**


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